


I Swear to You, I Will Be There

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Crossdressing, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Self-Hating Javert, You Really Should Not Read This, possible suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert enjoyed wearing female lingerie.  It...didn't go so well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Swear to You, I Will Be There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> I am not responsible. Blame aeon_entwined for this. It is really all aeon_entwined's fault. Inspire by this **[drawing and fic](http://brodinsons.tumblr.com/post/49423341348/thorium-230-oh-my-friends-my-friends-forgive)**.
> 
> ~~Because I am not responsible, I am also not sorry. I should perhaps be disturbed by how easy it was to write this, though...~~

Javert did not know how he could have allowed it to come to this.

This…perversity he had always carefully hidden, for its revelation would mean his ruin. He envied those who only delighted in the sin of Sodom; they at least did not commit such unnatural acts while dressed as whores. He had done everything he could think of to stamp this urge from his soul. For each time he found himself desiring the garb of women, he would carve one letter upon his arm. He knew not how many “I have sinned” decorated both his arms now. Fire worked no better than the knife; the whip was equally useless. At last he gave in to the temptation and purchased certain female articles of clothing while in Paris on business, where he was sure he would not be recognized and questioned.

He instantly regretted this decision upon his return to Montreuil-sur-Mer. He kept them locked in his bottom drawer for as long as he was able, but could not bring himself to throw them out. He reasoned that the garments had not been cheap, but deep in his distorted soul, he knew all too well that was not why he could not part with them. They remained his most hated belongings until baseness overtook him again and he put them on for the first time.

He had grown to love them. He had thought if proper discretion was exercised, no harm could come of this. He had even become so bold as to wear silk stockings beneath his uniform trousers, where he had naively believed they would be well-concealed from all save himself.

He had been a fool.

It began with a brawl, followed by a concussion and a wound on his thigh that necessitated the removal of his trousers to treat, and ended with his secret in the possession of M. le Maire. He should perhaps have been glad that somehow, through some divine miracle, M. le Maire alone was privy to his shame.

To his gratitude and astonishment, M. le Maire not only kept his confidence but did not avoid his company or view him with scorn. He was as cordial as ever, gentle and kind and benevolent. With his greatest secret known to him without adverse consequences, it should not have surprised Javert that he permitted himself to become increasingly attached to the mayor. He shared the mayor’s meals and the warmth of his fire, and eventually the warmth of his bed as well.

In that bed, Monsieur Madeleine had kissed each of his numerous scars and blessed them with his tears. In that bed, he laid bare his entire warped self and was accepted unconditionally. In that bed, they pleasured each other without hesitation or shame. In that bed, together they had known the joys of heaven.

In that bed, Javert learned to think of their joining as no longer a sin, but a consummation of love.

The single disagreement in their relationship was over the matter of a whore who cried for her child, but under his lover’s insistence, he had let her go. The gentleman did not stick around to file a report. It was not really against the law.

That night, he was more than repaid for the small leniency.

He should have known it would be too good to last.

It all ended with a letter. He had received a letter summoning him to testify at the trial of one Jean Valjean, masquerading as a wheelwright under the name Champmathieu. He had thought it would be a simple matter. He informed his lover and left for Arras. He did not wait until the conclusion of the trial, wishing to be home as soon as possible. When he returned, he found their home empty.

He learned the truth soon enough.

He discovered Jean Valjean in the hospital, at the bedside of that dying prostitute. An entirely irrational flare of jealousy pierced his heart, for he should not be jealous over the attentions of a convict. It was nothing compared to the excruciating pain of betrayal, or the hollowness left with the death of his dignity. He had allowed a convict to fuck him like a common whore. He had disgraced his duty and his uniform in more ways than one. He could not bear to continue in his post.

Monsieur—Jean Valjean tried to explain. He did not wish to hear. He forced the convict to the very edge of the balcony.

When Valjean dived into the frigid December waters, he followed.

He did not resurface.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if there's anything else I should tag. I have never written anything of the sort before, and though I am really not sorry for this story, I do apologize if I have offended anyone.


End file.
